It would be a chase. Francis studied his lead—a hundred yards, no more. And he was holding an empty rifle. I have to beat them, he thought. He had a good mount in his Indian pony, but the Crows were also riding Indian ponies. It stood to reason that out of five ponies, at least one would be as fast or faster than his. He couldn’t expect miracles all the time.

Sure enough, one of the ponies was as fast as his little mare. But two others were faster, and they gained rapidly. Before he’d covered half a mile, they had cut his hundred-yard lead in half.

Francis leaned forward. “Run! If I ever needed speed, I need it now.”

She was full-out already. She put her ears back and stretched an inch or two, but it didn’t help much.

Another half mile, he thought, watching the two Indians gaining on him, and they’ll be alongside of me. Then what?

Forty yards now, and one of the Indians raised his bow and loosed an arrow.

Francis, looking back, saw the arrow rise in a slow arc and fall toward him. He felt his stomach tighten as his eyes followed its course.

It fell short—by ten yards or so. The Indian fitted another arrow to the bow and aimed.

He’s getting the range, Francis thought. Only thirty yards separated them now.

Francis nudged his pony just as the Indian shot his second arrow. The mare veered to the left, still at a dead run, and the arrow missed.

Twenty yards now. They can’t miss again, he thought. Not at this short range.

Only fifteen yards, and now two Indians raised their bows.

“No!” Francis cried. “You can’t …”

Then he heard it. Far off—a noise like the sound of muted thunder. A second later, he heard something whisper over his head, and the lead Indian fell from his horse.

The second Indian veered aside—releasing his arrow at the same time, but missing Francis.

The Hawkens—the great Hawkens of Jason Grimes had done it again.

Francis eased up a bit and looked for the mountain man. It was still almost a quarter of a mile to camp—an impossible range, an impossible shot.

Now Francis saw him—a speck that was leaning against a tree by the camp. At this range it was impossible to tell what the mountain man was doing, but in a moment Francis knew. A cloud of smoke jumped out in front of him, and the sound of a shot followed.

Francis whirled to watch the Indians. One of the ponies somersaulted, throwing his rider heavily.

That still left three. And those three stopped, dismounted, and hid behind the available cover.

Francis dropped down to a canter. It was safe now, and the mare was blowing pretty hard. Even so, it wasn’t but a few moments before he was dismounting at the camp.